


The Black Cottage

by KidA_666



Series: Desires and Dreams and Powers [3]
Category: Kendare Blake, Three Dark Crowns Series - Kendare Blake
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Naturalist Katharine, Poisoner Arsinoe, drinking! with! willa!, i love crying, implied (?) major character death, just a beautiful and misunderstood lesbian, kind of, no mistaken identity, no switch au, no triplet switch, not that MY Natalia is ever a monster, prequel to the snake queen universe, young Natalia Arron who isn't a monster yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 06:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15880545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KidA_666/pseuds/KidA_666
Summary: Natalia Arron is summoned to the Black Cottage to acknowledge the newest poisoner queen, Arsinoe, while still reeling from the loss of the last.





	The Black Cottage

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by the idea introduced in the Two Dark Reigns excerpt that families go to the Black Cottage to greet the new queens. I also love to think that Natalia Arron is a lesbian. (And also all the other characters.) MORE stories set in the actual currrent timeline of the Snake Queen incoming. Depression and writer's block are CANCELLED! Also TDR in a few days. I can't wait to ignore canon and keep writing my gay fics.

_ ‘When will we meet again, sweetheart? _

_ When will we meet again?’ _

_ ‘When the autumn leaves that fall from trees _

_ Are green and spring up again.’ _

-“The Unquiet Grave,” Child Ballad 78

\--

Natalia Arron does not want to see the new queens.  She does not want to stare into their black eyes ― so impossibly wide, still in awe of the world after just two weeks of life.  She does not even want to look on the battered floorboards and weathered walls of the Cottage itself. To do so will be to imagine the little feet of another queen pattering up and down the halls, or ― much later ―  lurching sluggishly towards a birthing bed.

Natalia does not want to go into this place where her queen had lived and be reminded of what she has lost.

But Aileen Arron, her mother, is far too busy; and Genevieve, her sister, far too cruel.  She could not even be trusted with Camille, who was three years her senior, let alone a helpless babe.  So Natalia will go, and she will look on their new queen; and she will not shed not a single tear.

\--

The midwife greets Natalia at the door, ushering her inside with a gentle hand on the small of her back.   _ Willa _ , she remembers.  How Camille had screamed for her that first year, long after she had forgotten her sisters.  

After Natalia has been relieved of her coat and boots ― soaked through by the snow and ice that plagues the mountains this time of year ― she is escorted to the sitting room, where the other heads of family are waiting.  Stone-faced Cait Milone and a heavily pregnant Sara Westwood. Natalia is the youngest by far, and the last to arrive. 

Cait acknowledges her with a nod.  Sara will not even look her in the eye.  She knows what they are thinking; can sense the hatred that smolders just beneath their skin; can guess the rumors and hearsay that make Sara Westwood curl her lip as though she is face to face with something unclean.  The only thing they may take comfort in is the fact that she is here instead of in the capital, raining down injustices from her Council seat. 

But she is still Natalia Arron, stewardess of queens.  An architect of the poisoner dynasty. She settles into the chair closest to the fireplace, her head held high.

“The queens are sleeping,” Willa says.  Her voice is soft, with a low country accent that Natalia can almost place; but there is potential in it, for strength.  The strength that one must call upon many times, in the raising and release of queens. The strength required to keep your heart from breaking.  Natalia knows it well. 

Just as Sara Westwood opens her mouth to object, Willa continues.  “But you may still see them, if you are quiet.”

\--

The poisoner queen would be hard to miss, even if her bassinet was not marked by a mobile of snakes and spiders, the edges of her blanket stitched with oleander and wolfsbane blooms.  She is a fierce thing, her tiny, red face scrunched and wrinkled as an old woman’s. Little hands balled into fists atop the blankets. Every now and then, she kicks or gurgles angrily, as though she will wake screaming.  

Her sisters, wrapped in embroidered quilts of puffy clouds and leaping fawns, are peaceful by comparison.  

“Queen Arsinoe,” Natalia repeats, stepping forward cautiously so as not to wake one of the triplets and incur Willa’s wrath.  

Sara Westwood and Cait Milone have come and gone, their queens claimed and given little trinkets to mark them further ― a blue gown finer than those worn by many grown women for the elemental, and a humble doe carved from driftwood for the naturalist.  Natalia’s own gift is clutched tightly in her hand, cool silver warming quickly in her palm.

It is a brooch in the likeness of a cobra, with onyx eyes and a line of pinprick-sized diamonds up its back, meant to catch the light.  A relatively humble adornment, for a poisoner queen. But Natalia handles it with care, placing it gently in the corner of Queen Arsinoe’s bassinet.  She is loathe to part with it at all, although she knows that it will return to her on the day of the new queens’ Claiming, as all gifts do. These are not not so much presents for the triplets as they are an offering to the Goddess who sent them.

“I had this made for the last queen,” Natalia explains, feeling ridiculous.  Babies, who cannot converse or listen to orders, confound her. Her brother Christophe’s son, Pietyr, scarcely a year old, is the only child that does not immediately begin to wail in her presence.  And that is mostly because she bribes him with sweets when his mother is not looking. 

But Queen Arsinoe is not wailing.  Not yet. For a moment, the little poisoner’s face seems to smooth into a relaxed expression.  Perhaps there are parts of her that still remember Camille, not yet stolen away by the oblivion that the Goddess casts over all queens.  “She wanted you to have it. So you must take proper care, until we meet again. After that, I will keep it for you,” she continues, placing a tentative hand on the edge of the bassinet, “to be worn on all of your birthdays.”  

Natalia had commissioned the brooch on a trip to Rolanth, during Camille’s third year on the throne. Although she despised elementals, their craftsmanship was unparalleled.  For centuries, the mines beneath Shannon’s Blackway had yielded the purest of silver and gems. And though they may have spit at Natalia’s retreating back, even the proudest elemental silversmith would not turn down the opportunity to have their work pinned to the bosom of a queen.  

“I will wear it always,” Camille had trilled, giddy as a girl ― still a girl, Natalia had reminded herself.  Scarcely nineteen. “Just here.” She smiled at Natalia, gesturing towards the left side of her chest. “Above my heart.”

“Your heart is much nearer to the center than that,” Natalia chided.  “We learned as much in our lessons.”

“That was a lifetime ago,” Camille replied.  Her smile faltered, bright black eyes going dull; and suddenly, she was far away.  “I have done so much since then.”

Natalia watches Arsinoe for a moment longer.  The queen’s face is twisted again, so that she seems to be snarling.  It is hard to imagine that she will ever be brimming with life, as Camille was up to the end.  Perhaps the little poisoner is on the beaches of Bastian City, staring down Mainland hordes in some great War Queen of Old’s battle.  Camille had often dreamed through the eyes of the others, killing and conquering. 

“Just once,” she always said, “I would like to be a naturalist, reclining in the meadows.  Splashing through a stream somewhere.”

“How filthy,” Natalia would tease.  Camille pretended to be hurt before kissing her anyhow.

Behind her, the door creaks.  Willa approaches from behind, her stocking-feet hardly making a noise against the floorboards.  “Mistress Arron,” she says, placing a hand on Natalia’s shoulder. It is time to go. Sara Westwood is probably pacing the halls, convinced that Natalia will smother the other queens as they sleep.

But Sara has already retreated to the sitting room, ordering her trunks loaded by a gaggle of servants that seem to have materialized out of nowhere.  Natalia’s own have been dismissed for the night, are probably riding towards Sunpool to gamble and have their fortunes told. They will not return until tomorrow when the sun is at its peak, illuminating the glen and the mountain paths beyond.  Horses from Indrid Down are not accustomed to such long, treacherous rides. They would be courting death, striking out when it is nearly dark. 

Perhaps Sara Westwood has decided that, when faced with a choice between traveling by night and sleeping under the same roof as Aileen’s heir, she will take her chances with the mountains.

Natalia finds Cait Milone standing in the kitchen, alone.  It would not surprise her if the wizened old crone had made the journey entirely on foot.  

“So frivolous,” the naturalist says, her face still turned towards the fire.  There is such contempt in her voice. If she thinks the Westwoods frivolous, then the Arrons must disgust her, with their sprawling country estates and velvet sleeves that trail the floor.  She must have mistaken Natalia’s footsteps for Willa’s. 

The older woman goes on.  “You need only a cart and one good ox.  Some cured meat. Maybe a change of knickers, if you are squeamish.”

Natalia cannot help it.  She snorts. “That is what my mother thinks.  One good, black gown. Clean underclothes. A few pieces of silver.”  

_ And a vial of good, strong poison _ , she adds silently.  But even Cait Milone, hardened as she has been by the salt-sea air, may recoil at that.  

As it is, she turns to Natalia and smiles.

\--

Dinner at the Black Cottage is a bleak affair ― a bowl of thin, watery stew with watercress and carrots floating on top, and a crust of bread to sop it up.  

“The supply runs are few this time of year,” Willa explains, noting Natalia’s sour expression.  Ashamed, she forces herself to grin. An Arron is never supposed to look down their nose at something outright; only scoff at it later when they are among friends, sipping poisoned wine from silver chalices.

“It is a nice change from the palace,” she lies.  

So many succulent cuts of meat, rubbed with herbs and swimming in tainted butter.  Sides of candied scorpions. Pies of belladonna and yew. Every meal a  _ Gave Noir.   _ Her mouth waters at the memory.  

She will simply pretend that that is where she is now, instead of hunched over a wobbling wooden table, spooning lukewarm broth into her mouth.  

Willa barks a laugh, unconvinced.  “I can at least offer you a bit of wine,” she says.  

In a gesture that is simultaneously savage and impressive, she grabs hold of her bowl and tips it upwards, finishing her broth in a few large gulps.  After wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she leaves the kitchen. Natalia can just make out the sounds of her rummaging through cabinets the next room over.  She shuffles back in a moment later with a jar of unlabelled, seemingly home-brewed liquid.

“Consider it your  _ digestif _ ,” the midwife mumbles, cackling to herself before removing the jar’s lid and pouring two tall glasses of straw-colored wine.  Natalia sniffs it. If she did not know better, she would swear that it was― 

“May Wine,” Willa says, taking a hearty swig.  “My old bones cannot be warmed by anything less nowadays.”

“You are a poisoner, then?” Natalia asks.  Immediately, she feels foolish. But it comes as a shock.  Since their rise to power, so few poisoners take the oath of the Temple that it is almost considered a betrayal to do so.  

“In the eyes of the Temple, I have no gift,” Willa replies with a wink.  “But I was born a poisoner, yes. It was the Head Priestess at Prynn who gave me my bracelets.”  

To the Arrons and the Council, information is a sort of currency.  If information from a Milone or a Westwood is a silver piece, knowledge of Willa’s life before the Temple is hardly copper.  It is a waste of Natalia’s time to ask.

But Camille would ask, if only for the sake of knowing.  It is the same reason why she spent hours in the library at Greavesdrake, poring over her beloved, dusty histories and folktales.  

“Were you from a prominent family?”  She drains her own glass, determined not to let an aged priestess outdrink her, and pours herself another before Willa can do so.  Let no one say that the future head of House Arron has been waited upon to the point of helplessness.

“I hear that we have made quite a name for ourselves.”

For a moment, Natalia’s heart ceases beating.  She studies the midwife. Her hair has long since turned gray, but her eyes…blue, surely, but not quite― 

“Marlowe,” Willa says, and Natalia exhales.  “I believe that a great-nephew of mine sits on the Council.”

“Lucian,” Natalia says, straightening her back and swallowing with a sharp  _ click _ .  Composing herself.  “He is quite clever.”

In truth, Natalia despises Lucian, in part because her cousin of the same name is so superior to him.  She would like to place Cousin Lucian on the Council one day, when a spot is vacated and she is at its head.

“I am glad to hear it,” Willa says.  “Mother was strict in our schooling. Lessons from sunup to sundown.  I suppose the tradition continues.” She takes another sip of May Wine.  “Still treading water, trying desperately to outswim the Arrons.” 

\--

They drink the evening away in front of the blazing kitchen fire, talking of nothing in particular.  Willa tells her what she remembers of Prynn, the stately old buildings of ivy and red brick. The fountains whose spouts are dragons and basilisks.  Queen Mithidrata’s mural in the square. 

Natalia has seen Prynn many times since Camille’s Ascension.  It is not half so grand as Willa’s reminiscing paints it to be; but the wine has made her warmer.  Softer. She will not ruin an old woman’s memories.

“Camille adored Prynn,” she says, grinning so hard that she can feel it.  “All things old and dusty, she loved.” 

Willa is smiling, too.  Her eyes shine in the firelight.  

“What was she like?” Natalia asks.  More useless information; Mother would disapprove.  But she wants it desperately. “As a little girl. Before she was mine.”

_ Ours _ , the voice in her head ― it sounds quite like Genevieve, shrill and hateful ― corrects.   _ An Arron queen.  Never only yours. _

Natalia shushes the voice.  Stamps it out.

“Plump,” Willa says, and laughs.  “She had the fattest little legs. But it never stopped her from toddling after her sisters.  They were my first set of queens. I was only thirty, but I always felt so old, chasing after them.  Hardly able to keep up.” Willa sighs. “Now, I am truly old. Already, Arsinoe claws and kicks out of all of her gowns.  And Katharine can wail like a wild thing. I am afraid they will be the death of me.” 

But she smiles as she says it.  Natalia can see that she knows the queens already.  Has assigned them each a personality to live up to, imagined what their childhood misadventures will be.  

“You are lucky,” Natalia says, “to have them when they are young and sweet.  Before they must become something else.”

“No,” Willa replies, her smile fading.  “I am cursed to remember them always as sweet girls, even while they tear each other apart.”  

\--

That night, sleeping beneath a pile of moth-eaten quilts in Oracle colors, Natalia dreams of Camille.

\--

_ They are standing in the Volroy library, tucked away in some forgotten corner.  Camille’s hands are clasped in front of her when Natalia would very much like for them to be in her hair. _

_ “I want you to have this,” Camille says, reaching out to press her cobra brooch into Natalia’s palm.  “To give to the next poisoner queen, if there is one.” _

_ Natalia laughs.  Of course there will be another poisoner queen.  But that is twenty or thirty years from now. Camille has only just passed her sixth Beltane as queen.     _

_ She blinks, and they are somewhere else.  The queen’s bedchamber. Camille is weeping as servants dutifully packs her things into trunks, and Natalia is clutching her wrists.  She sends the servants away with nothing more than a look.  _

_ “Perhaps I could find you when it is over,” Camille says, trying to laugh.  It is a miserable, half-hearted attempt. Natalia can see, for the first time, the slight roundness of the queen’s belly.  “Dye my hair and come back as a servant. Would you know me?” _

_ “I will always know you,” Natalia whispers.  She tucks Camille’s black hair behind her ears, kisses her forehead.  “And I will always find you. You need only to wait for me.” _

_ She blinks again, and she is standing at the edge of a precipice.  Camille is waiting for her on the other side. But Natalia remembers her promise, and she will leap across, if she must. _

_ She steps over the edge just as Camille does the same, and they fall for a long, long while.  But at the bottom of the pit, they find one another again. Of course they do. She promised.  _

_ “I have been waiting,” the queen says.  Their hands meet. _

_ Then, Natalia kisses her, hard, and they do not speak anymore.   _

_ \-- _

The next morning, Willa allows Natalia to look upon the queens one last time.  They woke sometime in the night, wailing with hunger. Natalia had only buried her pounding head beneath a pillow, cursing the midwife’s homemade wine.  And secretly cursing the little queens, too, for waking her from a pleasant dream. 

But she would like to see them now, placated and sleeping once again.  To say goodbye to little Arsinoe, and Camille’s beloved brooch.

The naturalist and the elemental are sleeping peacefully as ever; although last night, she was sure that she had overheard Willa hissing a firm, “Stop all that crying, Queen Katharine.”

Natalia wanders towards Arsinoe, daring to reach a hand out and tuck the little queen’s blanket around her feet.  Immediately, the poisoner queen kicks, straining against it. She will not be confined, lest it interfere with whatever battle she is fighting in her dreams.

Or perhaps she is only splashing through a stream.


End file.
